Darlings
by Gospel Stonemad
Summary: It was all in the charm. Conman AU.


_Darlings_

* * *

She looked around. They had drifted far away from the bank of the canal. "Are we stealing this boat?"  
"Stealing' is such an ugly word," he mused.  
"What do you want to call it?"  
He picked her up and swung her around before putting her down. "An extreme case of window-shopping."

_City of Lost Souls_

Cassandra Clare

* * *

**Date: **September 13th

**Time:** 18:32

**Location:** Brooklyn, New York

The stairs leading up to the apartment were old and moaned whenever a foot landed on them. Steve Rogers, ninety pounds, managed to make it just creak a little—though that might be because his arms were loaded up with bags of art supplies, theatre makeup, and rolled up fabric. The wooden door looked like it had seen better days; dark paint peeling off and revealing the lighter wood underneath.

Bucky Barnes hoisted up the black briefcase at his side up to his hip and fished around for the key.

Even the hinges groaned, but the two men didn't really pay attention to that—setting down bags and cases and whatever else onto the wobbly legged kitchen table.

"Count the money," Steve said, shutting the door with his foot and sliding the lock into place. He pulled out his new supplies with a careful relevance; paints placed one by one in a line, brushes kept together, a new sketchbook and notebook stacked on top of each other.

Bucky laughed and ruffled the blonde hair. "Don't tell me what to do, squirt," but he popped open the lid of the case and pulled out the checks and bills, all tied together with rubbed bands. He set them out in small piles—each one equalling a hundred—while Steve pulled out his laptop (the only new thing in the apartment, really) and snatched the flash drive sitting in one of the smaller pockets.

It held a PowerPoint covered with information about a studio apartment, weeks worth of effort building up in Photoshop—and Steve deleted it by pressing a button his keyboard, pulled at his loose shirt, and started up a new one when a knock came to the door.

The two men stared at each other for a second before Bucky quickly packed away everything in a mad scramble and Steve put his hand over his mouth when he shouted _coming_ so it would sound as if he was in a different room.

"Okay, okay," Bucky murmured, shoving the briefcase under the couch just as Steve opened the door.

Clarisse Jurhs, the woman in the apartment above them, looked over her cicular glasses at the two young men fidgeting in their own doorway. Her dark skin was silhouetted by the afternoon light, greying hair a silver halo around her face.

"Would one of you boys," she said after her initial analysis (in which Bucky and Steve both resisted the urge to see if they were still wearing clothing), "help me get the groceries up from the car?"

"Of course, ma'am," Steve offered, stepping outside and grunted when Bucky's arm wrapped around his chest. "Let go of me—"

"You've lifted enough things up enough staircases today, buddy," the taller man said, herding Steve back inside and, when his back was turned to Clarisse, Bucky looked meaningfully at the couch—and the case hiding beneath it. "I can do this."

"But—"

The door slammed in Steve's face and he groaned, shedding his button up shirt and readjusting the back brace that was pressing a bit too tightly against his hips. He sat down on the floor and pulled the case out from under the couch, popped open the lid with his thumbs, and started to set out piles of one hundred.

"You two are such nice young fellas," Clarisse's voice came through the doorway and he could hear Bucky thundering up and down the steps. "When are you going to put a ring on that boy's hand?"

Steve coughed, slapping a hand over his mouth, blue eyes wide.

Outside, he heard Bucky yelp before the sound of something crashing almost had him on his feet. The loud "I'm okay!" stopped him, though, and he bit his lip, going back to counting bills and checks.

He was just about finished when the other man came through the door, red still staining his cheeks. "How much?"

"Fifteen thousand." Steve held up the checks so Bucky could put them in the small little grey cash bag they had. Both of them would go to the Bank tomorrow, the taller man acting as a business man and the blonde depositing the cash into their private checking account.

Fifteen thousand earned in one day and tucked away.

They were good.

_Oh_, were they good.

"I need a new suit for the next job," Bucky said, sitting at the kitchen table, as Steve—little Steve with his long, bony legs and floppy blonde hair—crawled up onto the sofa and curled up (back still straight as a board) against the ratty arm rest. He had placed the new sketchbook in his lap and the pencil was leaving long lines that seemed created just for his forearm to smudge. "Either sailor or military."

"Hmmm," Steve hummed and finished up the last few lines of a cat sketch before turning the page. He drew the slope of Bucky's shoulders, his rectangular torso. "Navy," the smaller man bit the back of his pencil and ran his eyes over his friend's form, adding a crisp jacket and ironed trousers. "Navy would work."

Bucky looked down over his torso, holding out his arms as if they were someone else's. "How do you figure that?"

"The Navy is full of whimps." Steve laughed and leaned backwards over the sofa to duck the boot thrown at him (granted, it was thrown a little high anyway, so he didn't _really_ have to dodge).

"Punk."

"Jerk."

They grinned at each other and Steve went back to his drawing while Bucky got up from where he was sitting and bustled around the kitchen, pulling down a dented pot to start some soup. "We could get new kitchen stuff," he said after opening three cans with a rusty can opener. "We've got the money."

"Weren't we saving it for school?" Steve muttered with that casual air of someone used to having this argument frequently (like, every _day_ frequently). He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth while drawing the shoes. "The pot is fine."

"_Steve_," the other man whined.

Sharp blue eyes turned to him, narrowing. "The _pot_ is _fine_. It still makes your soup, doesn't it?"

Bucky groaned. "It's got a dent."

"Yeah? Well, we aren't getting a new one till it's got a _hole_." Steve waved his pencil around to emphasis his point, not looking back at the other man before spotting a few placed on the drawn trousers that needed fixing and dug around through his pencil bag for an eraser "What rank do you wanna be?"

The tall man shrugged, dumping the soup into the pot and placing it on the old, rocking stove. "I dunno."

"Master Chief Petty Officer, then."

Bucky frowned, digging through the drawers for a ladle, the handle of which was bent almost double and he grunted, straightening it out over his knee. "Why that?"

A dog barked outside as a car honked.

"Cause you're a master at being petty," Steve snapped back and scowled, holding up a marker. "What colour is this?"

"Green," Bucky said, glancing back over his shoulder absently. "And I thought I was pretty."

The small man snorted. "Yeah," he mumbled digging through his bag again before finding a black marker and pulling the cap off with his teeth. He spoke around the plastic, voice muffled and slurred. "_Pretty_ petty."

"Hardy har har," Bucky growled at the stove when it didn't turn on. He kicked it, adding another dent at the bottom, and grinned when the red lights flashed of the clock flashed and the heat pad turned on. "Some day that mouth of yours is gonna get you a beating."

_That_ got Steve to laugh—until he winced and tugged at the brace where it was pressed against his ribs. "Sure thing, I'll put it on the list." He snapped the cap back on the marker and looked over his work. "We're going to have to stop by the fabric store tomorrow so I can get supplies. I don't have the right colour thread for this."

"Look at you, busy worker bee," but Bucky was grinning, the thought of another job coming on and making his head spin with adrenaline and _excitement_. Just the idea that they could make it, that the two of them could enrol for the fall semester; _that_ was a goal to look forward to. "Beats pick pocketing down on Main," he murmured to himself and Steve looked up.

"Beats stealing _cars_," The blonde countered. "Modern day Robin Hoods—stealing from the rich just to get an _education_." There was a bitterness there. A strong, strong bitterness that rose up in the back of their throats every time they thought of people like Tony Stark who lived it up in Manhattan, building his giant towers and weaponized suits of armour.

What about them at the bottom? Didn't they deserve to have their dreams come true, too?

_Welcome to America_, Steve thought bitterly, accepting a steaming bowl of soup from Bucky, _where the poor stayed at the bottom unless they had a well full of luck_.

Where the school system is crap and higher education costs an arm, a leg, and a first born child.

But—Steve looked over at Bucky as the other man flipped open a newspaper, highlighter in hand; he was looking for jobs, looking for what people _needed_, what they _wanted_—they were smart. Smarter than anyone else had given them credit for. Steve the artist, the sculpture, the small one that saw the big picture and the little one, too. Bucky the fighter, the charmer, the one who could come home with a girl and a guy on either arm.

Sometimes you had to be creative.

Sometimes you had to be willing to get your hands dirty in order to survive.

* * *

**Date: **September 16th

**Time:** 7:32

**Location:** Manhattan, New York

Agent Natasha Romanoff waited for her coffee, dressed in a pair of jogging pants and jacket with one of those drawstring back packs hanging low over her butt. Her red hair hung down around her chin, looking stark and almost bloody in the shade but lit up in fire when the light brushed across the strands. She took the two steaming cups from the street vendor and held them close to her chest as a jogger passed her. This early morning was the type of cold where it nipped angrily at fingers and cheeks and the sun, sleepily peeking over the horizon, didn't have enough warmth in its rays yet to chase it away.

The young woman sat down on one of the wooden benches lining the slow moving morning street (the kind in which heavy morning traffic hadn't infested yet—though it was only a matter of time) beside her partner, Agent Clint Barton, who looked smaller than usual in his dark blue baggy sweatshirt, hood pulled over his head and violet sunglasses low on his nose.

He held a newspaper loosely in one hand and took the coffee in the other with a grateful sigh, curling his fingers around the Styrofoam so the warm drink would chase the cold away. Steam rose from the small hole in the lid, curling around his nose and making the front of his glasses slightly fogged over. Natasha took a sip of hers—not boiling hot, but warm enough that she sighed and sunk back into the bench.

"So," the archer said after a few moments, sipping tentatively, testing the temperature, "what have we got?"

"Not completely sure, yet," Natasha said, the backpack dropping from around her shoulders and she handed over a manila folder to him. There were papers, pictures, but not much else. "Fury says they're conmen."

A runner passed and they both took a drink from their coffees, leaning over to seem as if they were looking at an article in the newspaper.

Clint snorted when the person was gone, laughing in the way where something that was remarkably humourless managed to tickle his funny bone. "Well, they're good. Managed to get enough money in a day that makes _Stark's_ pay check look like a joke," he tapped his middle finger on the estimated sum written (in pen and not typed, which was odd) on the file and Natasha noticed—not for the first time—the small creases in his skin from a bowstring. "How long has Fury been after these guys?"

"Five years now," Natasha brushed her crimson hair out of her face. "But Intel suggests that they've been doing this for a lot longer than that."

"Hmmm," Taking a long drink of his cooled-down coffee, Clint leaned back on the bench, legs out, almost on the street, shoulders hunched. "And how are _you_ proposing that we catch them?"

The man that owned the shop behind them was setting up his chalkboard signs, ready for the morning crowd if the smell of pastries that wafted through the air was anything to go by.

Natasha flipped through the pages, almost as if she was a librarian reading herself to read to a group of children, and slid them back into the folder. "We find their hunting ground."

"The rich and famous," Huffing, Clint swung his legs forward so getting up on his feet was a whole body motion, watching as she slid the folder into a drawstring bag and hefted it over her shoulder. They drank the rest of their coffees as they walked, threw the empty cups into the trash bins, and headed to the land of perfect manicured lawns and crisply painted buildings. "If I were squirreling money from the rich, who would I go after first..."

Beside him, the redhead paused at one of the neighbourhood boards (covered in glass and locked, of course) and glanced over the stapled fliers. "Elderly, the lonely," she murmured, dismissing the bunko and bingo ones.

"So the single and the old," Clint shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed his eyes at a woman who was staring out of her window. She scowled back at him and closed the blinds. "How does Fury expect us to catch them, anyway? It's not like our normal rapt sheets include taking down conmen."

Natasha pulled her phone out of her pocket to snap a couple of pictures, especially of one of the fliers. "They'll be here at around noon," she said, flipping through them with her thumb, zooming in to look over the details before sending them all off to a number that simply said _Coulson_ on the contact.

"Yeah?" Clint leaned forward to glance at one of the pictures and saw the large flier, the offers for a once-in-a-lifetime cruise, and the 'yours for just five hundred a person(exclamation point, exclamation point)'. He whistled his appreciation when he looked up at the board, stepping closer to get a nice, good look at it. "They put some effort into _that_."

And it _was_ obvious that they had; a professional looking logo up on the right hand corner (that looked remarkably similar to another one out there, but Clint couldn't name cruise companies off the top of his head), a gorgeous mix of typography in the shape of a ship (and it managed _not_ to look tacky), pictures of a cruise ship, an island, a coastal paradise, and some happy families all smiling and laughing, not paying attention to the photographer.

At the bottom it listed a name, a number, and an address for an informational meeting with the Captain of the ship down at the park pavilion that day. Everyone was invited to come to the presentation to get the once in a lifetime opportunity.

"Shall we meet the Captain?" Natasha spun on her heel, heading down the street to the park, not looking up from her phone.

"Sure," Clint grinned, trotting beside her. "I'm quite interested on what he has to say."

* * *

**Date: **September 16th

**Time:** 10:32

**Location:** Brooklyn, New York

Steve sat on the edge of the rickety table, a large (seemingly four story) theatre makeup kit on his lap, brush and sponge in each hand, glasses almost falling down his nose (they were too big and the temple tips went way past his ears). He was only partially dressed, back brace keeping him from bending over, grey sweatpants covering his bare feet. "The PowerPoint's all done," he told Bucky as the taller man kept still, sitting up straight in his seat and staring ahead, careful not to move. He was already wearing a ginger wig, the strands slicked back, freckles peppered across his nose and down his neck. "I fixed up a few things on the slides so they should look like one of those classic 'take a nice vacation and please give us your money' presentations."

"Did you put in the blue?" Bucky grinned and quickly schooled his features as the sponge dabbed across what was quickly becoming a 'boating accident' scar. "I like the blue."

The smaller man used his middle finger to push the glasses back up his nose and leaned back to scowl at his friend. "Yes," Steve grumbled, checking over his work with a critical eye and leaned forward so he could add more details along the edges using the brush. "_Yes_, I added the blue."

"What if it ends up being horribly mismatched?" The taller man continued as if the artist hadn't even spoken. "I mean, you are colour blind—" He yelped as a small, pale hand slapped his shoulder and pouted when the owner reached up and turned off the hearing aide in his right ear. "You're a jerk," Bucky shouted and only got a wiry grin in response.

"Arm," Steve ordered, tapping Bucky's left shoulder and rolled up the sleeve to the elbow when it was at his eye-height. The artist turned the arm roughly with his fingers before grabbing a bottle of liquid latex and smoothed the white paste across the light lilac shade of purple that his skin was. "Shark or dolphin?" He muttered, holding up disks of makeup so he could match the colour.

"Sharks are so much _manlier_."

Humming, the artist grinned, ducking his head down to mould out the jagged markings with the back end of his paintbrush and tip of his thumb. "Dolphin, you said?"

"Shark!"

"_What?_" Steve yelled, still not looking up from his work as he waved his hand at the latex, urging it to dry. He picked up one of the other brushes—one with soft bristles and used for blush.

Bucky groaned and leaned back in the chair, his head flopping backwards as the white on his skin was covered up. "I hate you," he said to the ceiling and heard Steve's light laughter echo through the apartment. The artist continued his work with patient persistence, dabbing at his art, applying makeup, and fixing a few of the creases on the other man's uniform.

Leaning back, he looked over the finished product and had Bucky hold up his arm next to his face so he could take a picture of them (just in case for later—and he liked to admire his work) before slapping the larger man on the bicep. "You're done. Enjoy your new look, Captain Hot Pants."

Bucky turned to look in the mirror and admired the scar that went from his cheekbone down to his jaw. "What's the story behind this one?"

"Seagull attack," Steve deadpanned, packing up his kit and sliding off the table to the floor. "I don't _know_, make something up."

Whining, Bucky slumped back into the chair and perked up when he saw the flash drive sitting on the table. "This it?"

"Yes," Steve glanced up from washing the sponge and brush. "The fliers and brochures are in the briefcase with the laptop. Everything else is in the car."

"And you're going to meet me there?"

Nodding, the smaller man carefully set out the supplies to dry, wiping his hands on a ratted rag. "I'll be on the roof across from the park."

"Cause you're a stalker," Bucky grinned, pulling out a pair of dress shoes from the closet. "Stalker Steve."

"What was that?" The smaller man shouted from the kitchen, pointing at his hearing aide—there was a cocky half grin on his face, though. The punk. "I can't hear you!"

"I said you're an idiot!" Bucky yelled back, cupping his hands around his mouth. "And turn that thing back on!"

There was a loud banging from upstairs and the sound of Clarisse opening up her window to yell at the two of them to 'shut up!'.

Steve stuck out his tongue but obeyed both, wincing at the sudden sound that came through the hearing and pressed his fingers underneath his ear—rubbing the device, after all, only evoked more sounds. More not-so-pleasant sounds. He tossed the makeup kit inside a large almost tackle box type of container that held some sewing supplies and enough cash to supply them for at least a year. It was his just-in-case (because Bucky liked puns and Steve had laughed a bit harder than he should have), a bit to keep the two of them going if they had to relocate.

"Car's in the back," Steve tossed Bucky the keys to the rental and tapped his bottom lip, looking up the other man. The ginger wig was gelled back, suit pressed, shoes polished. "Good luck, Captain."

"Roger that," Barnes snickered and was out the door before something hard could hit his skull.

Sighing, Steve removed his glasses and headed into the bathroom. He reached for a random case of contacts (on his side, of course—Bucky's would be absolutely _useless_) and quickly put them in. He blinked and saw clear, blue eyes, darker than his normal shade, staring back at him, and sighed. _Green_, he thought—he didn't own blue contacts that shade, after all, and it was _kind_ of his fault for not wearing his glasses, but, well... if anyone caught sight of him the contacts would stand out more than anything.

"Okay," the artist breathed in and out, bracing his hands on the counter to steel himself for the day, reached for his inhaler, and headed into his bedroom. Grabbing a baggy sweatshirt to pull over his head, he changed the sweats for a pair of jeans that had holes at the knees before walking out the door with his just-in-case.

He had to scramble back inside though to get the small flip phone that he and Bucky used during these types of jobs—easily disposable and couldn't be traced back to either of them.

The car that he and Bucky actually owned was rusting on the sides, the white paint a bit chipped, one of the front lights bashed out. But, it roared to life (after Steve pushed the seat up and grumbled good heartedly about 'tall friends') and pulled out onto the street with ease that it shouldn't have possessed.

Going from the section of New York where he and Bucky lived to the high estates was like watching one of those time-lapsed videos of a tree going from summer to fall. The broken down, chipped paint homes turned into buildings moulded from clay by God's own hands. Not a bush was out of place, all the cars shined, and Steve's little rust bucket got more than a few dirty looks.

That was alright, though, he could live with that.

Pulling into one of the side alleys, he parked the car and climbed up the fire escape, phone in his pocket. He saw Bucky in the park, chatting with an attractive young woman with crimson hair (the brightness of the shade almost taking him by surprise; it was like someone dabbing a single drop of red onto a greyscale canvas), wearing a leather jacket (_that_ he couldn't tell the colour of—it could be florescent _yellow_ for all he knew because it was a slightly dulled pink) and tight fitting jeans. Bucky's smile was bright and friendly, the scar standing out on his face each time he spoke.

Steve hummed to himself and looked up and down the street—that was when he saw the car. It didn't stand out in any way—just a normal, small black car. Four doors, tinted windows, it looked normal.

And in the land of the rich and famous, it stood out like a sore thumb.

A man with light hair got out of the car and Steve fumbled with his phone, pressing one (the only speed dial number he had _ever_ needed on that thing) and listened to the ringer. He watched Bucky on the other side of the street, frown and grab for his pocket—and the redhead he had been talking to lurched forward, snatching his wrist before it could even make it to his pants.

The artist cursed and pressed the end button as fast as he could, throwing the phone across the roof as Bucky stiffened, the polite smile dropping off his face for something hard and cold—something dangerous.

There had always been a darkness in Bucky.

Steve watched as the new man approached—the one that had gotten out of the car—walking slowly, hands in his pockets. He spoke to Bucky before grabbing his other arm, leading him towards the curb and, more importantly, the vehicle. Steve dug through his pockets, grabbing his real phone—click, a picture of the car. Click, a picture of the redhead. Click, a bag sliding over Bucky's head. Click, the licence plate. Click, the strange, spread winged eagle painted on the side of the doors. It said something, but the letters were indistinguishable from where he was.

Holding his breath (stupid, _stupid_ move, Steve Rogers) the artist waited until they had driven past the building before scrambling towards the fire escape and, after that, to his car. It rumbled to life beneath him and squealed when he turned out onto the street (that was alright, though, because he would miss this car. He really, really would).

It seemed like everything wanted him to get to the apartment in as much time as possible; The person in front of him, the light that turned red, the pedestrian that just wouldn't _walk fast enough_.

Steve reached his home and threw himself out of the car, scrambling up the stairs to the apartment. The key slipped from between his fingers they were shaking so bad and Steve cursed his clumsiness but still, somehow, managed to get the door unlocked.

Money, makeup, fabric, contact lenses, glasses, clothes, wallets, passports, medications, laptop, all the art supplies he had recently bought. Shoved what he could into a duffle bag and the rest into a backpack, the young man stared at it, before racing through Bucky's room and pulling all the wigs out of the closet, not caring for the way that the white, plastic head rolled across the ground in his haste.

All that mattered was that they—whoever _they_ were—got Bucky.

They got Bucky. They got _Bucky_.

Steve leaned against the doorframe as his thoughts finally chased him down, hands on his knees, gasping, wigs scattered across the floor. His eyes were wide, staring at nothing, staring at the image of a bag being pulled over Bucky's face, of the car driving away.

He had to get Bucky.

_Calm down,_ Steve told himself as each breath got harder, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. _Calm down, calm, calm, calm—_this was not the time to suffer an anxiety attack and shame welled up in his stomach. It felt like bile rising up in the back of his throat and that only made him want to gasp _harder_—

It took Steve longer than he would ever admit to get himself under control, but he managed it. The artist gathered up the wigs strewn across the ground and shoved them into the duffle bag, zipped it up, and winced as the weight pulled on his shoulder. It only got worse with the backpack, but Steve took a deep breath and straightened. Library first. Car second. He would find Bucky.

He'd find him and _bring him back_.

* * *

**Date: **September 17th

**Time:** 1:32

**Location:** Manhattan, New York

"James Buchanan Barnes," The director of SHIELD, Nick Fury, looked over the surprisingly stark file in his hands and then up through the glass. The only thing that had stood out was a fight that the police had broken up when Barnes had been in his teens. Fury could see the man on the other side, ginger wing having been removed, nasty scar across his slightly tanned features standing out even more under the florescent light bulbs. Dark eyes looked like coal pits as his black hair hung messily over his forehead. Their specialists were still going over his face when someone (an intern that most likely had just gotten themselves hired) mentioned that the mark looked a little bit too evident to be real. Makeup, perhaps—Fury wouldn't put it past him, the man had been wearing some well crafted clothes and that wig had seemed almost real, possibly crafted out of actual human hair. "Conman number one."

Natasha and Clint stood beside him, still dressed in the pedestrian clothing they had been wearing when they had brought the man in eight hours ago. "His partner wasn't with him," the archer said and handed over a second file to the director. "But we believe the only possible candidate is Steven Rogers, his flatmate."

The blonde young man in the file's photograph was grinning up at them, his thin face bright with unrestrained joy, blonde hair flopping across his wide, doe-like eyes. He seemed like the exact opposite of Barnes—all puppy and light. "Orphans," Fury flipped through the sheets. "No criminal or medical records, not even a damn parking ticket." The Director turned his one eye upwards, staring at the man on the other side of the glass. "They would have been ghosts if it wasn't for the fact you caught him in the act. No one would have believed you otherwise."

Well, Barnes looked like he was about to rip someone's throat out with his teeth, but that was beside the point. He had a perfect file—no record, didn't even get sent down to the principal's office.

"His drug tests came back clean," Natasha mentioned, arms crossed over her chest as she watched the man in the interrogation room casually inspected the handcuffs keeping him to the table. "Nothing in him but some Advil."

"So what the _hell_ did they need the money for?" Fury flipped through the files, scowling before straightening up and turning to the two agents. "Find Steven Rogers. If we have the two of them together we might get some more answers."

Clint and Natasha nodded and quickly left the room. Walking down a few hallways, they waited until they were a fair distance away before their eyes met. "He doesn't want to put them behind bars, does he?" The archer shoved his hands into his pockets.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Natasha straightened her back and stared ahead. The sight of her thoughts putting the pieces together was almost visible on her features. "If we hadn't known that he was going to be at the park today," She said slowly. "Barnes would have slipped past both of us." There was something akin to admiration in her tone. "They're good. They're _very_ good."

"And not as angelic as they look, either," Clint muttered, thinking about those dark eyes and bared teeth of James Barnes. "So, shall we take a look at their apartment? I doubt Rogers will be there, especially if they're partners."

"Dig through a mancave?" Natasha drawled. "Yes, that's _exactly_ how I want to spend my Wednesday evening."

It was a short drive—the streets empty in the early (or late depending upon when someone went to bed) hours of the night. The apartment was unlocked when they got there and Clint gently eased the door open. "I think he's gone," the archer said and Natasha flicked on the light to see the sight of a hurricane that had just gone through the place. A few things were knocked over, some completely out of place.

It was clean, but it was more of the fact that the cleanliness came from the small amount of possessions than someone who kept their place tidy enough for a magazine crew to show up spontaniousy. The mess was only made from someone's ransack packing.

"Jesus," Clint looked over the pots and pans hanging above the stove. "They earn, what, fifteen thousand a day and can't afford new kitchen ware?" He picked up a chipped plate and frowned, getting distracted by the damp sponge still sitting by the sink and the brush beside it. They had both been stained with pale makeup and the archer placed them into a plastic evidence bag. "And live off soup, sheesh." He picked up a can and shook it before tossing it to Natasha.

Chicken noodle. Generic. Couldn't get more boring than that.

She threw it back without looking.

"So they were saving up for something."

But the apartment was bare, bland, the wallpaper peeling, the furniture not matching. The sofa itself looked like it had been through better days; stuffing poking out of the sides, an indentation where a spring had obviously been replaced by the innards of a pillow. One of the chairs was missing a leg, the window was cracked down the middle, and most of the fabric was hole ridden from moths. There were no personal items, no paintings or photographs on the walls except for what looked like a half-done mural across blue paint that was steadily turning green.

The pantry was missing a door and the stove beeped and hissed angrily, red lights flashing on the clock area.

Things that could be left behind had been left behind. Easily replaceable—everything else was cheap and probably picked up from besides garbage bins. Hell, even their fridge looked like it had been grabbed from the nearby university after move-out day.

"This is," Clint started to say but stopped. _Sad_, he had wanted to say, because who lived in a place like this when they made enough money to own a house beside the people they stole from.

Natasha opened the closet door—but there were only a few pairs of shoes, two jackets, some mismatching gloves, and a couple of hats. "What were they doing?" She muttered to herself before turning and heading towards the hallway leading towards the bedrooms.

* * *

**Date: **September 17th

**Time:** 10:32

**Location:** Brooklyn, New York

Steve sat down at one of the computers in the local public library—one hidden off to the side, close to a window that looked out over the street. He logged on using one of the many library cards he and Bucky had picked up over the years and immediately searched for the eagle insignia. He had his pen in his mouth, a small, black notebook on the table.

SHIELD.

Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.

Steve snorted a bit at that—it was a mouthful—and searched for any known bases in New York.

None found.

He bit his tongue to keep from swearing (it was a library and he was close to the children's section, after all). Okay, dead end. Steve leaned back in the chair and bit on the end of his pen. How do you find someone that doesn't want to be found?

No.

_No_, that was wrong.

How do you find a government agency that spies on people for a living? Steve grinned and leaned forward, fingers flying across the keyboard. Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr. They were news sources that CNN, FOX, and others could only dream of being. Social media was a powerhouse.

_Gotcha._

There was Anonymous with their pictures. Black suits, pressed ties, white shirts. Steve sketched it out in his notebook, wrote down possible fabrics, shoes he needed to buy. It would be expensive but... _but_, if it got Bucky back, then it would all be worth it.

They'd have to go on the run, hide, find new identities. The artist rested his head in his hands and took a few, deep breaths. College was looking even further now. Out of their reach. They could do it, he had to believe that they could do it.

It was around noon by the time he packed up his notes and sketches, shutting down the computer for the librarian who smiled shyly at him. His time with the machine would have been over within a few minutes anyway, and he had gotten all the information he needed. There was a new list written in his notebook—supplies to get, things to do, and a time line to do it in.

Steve hoisted his duffle bag up on his shoulder as he walked down the street, fighting the urge to call a taxi and, instead, hunched over, sticking to the side of the buildings as people moved around him. He spotted a craft shop boasting a wide variety of fabrics and pulled his wallet from his sweatshirt pocket.

Time to get to work.

* * *

**Date: **September 18th

**Time:** 7:20

**Location:** Manhattan, New York

A brand new(_the license plates written out on paper taped to the back window_ brand new) Chevy Corvette pulled up to Brandon Jameson's station. It shone, blue paint lighting up with the morning sunrise and stood out among the other, darker cars waiting to get past the man sitting between them and the parking lot.

"Nice car," Brandon whistled, scanning the badge that the driver had given him without looking while admiring the slope of the vehicle, the spinning rims, and the lightly tinted windows.

"Thanks," grinning up at him, the young black haired man brushed his palms over the leather wheel almost reverently. "I just got it yesterday, thought I might show it off." His bright green eyes were shining in a child-like joy that the guard hardly ever got to see on some of the stone-hard agent's faces.

Chuckling, the guard handed back the badge and pressed the button for the blockade to rise. "Good on you, have a nice day!"

The smile he got back was wide and full of teeth. "Thanks! You too!"

Man did that engine purr as the Corvette sped up into the parking garage, but Brandon was quickly distracted as _another_ black car took its place with _another_ frowning face covered by large sunglasses.

At the wheel of the stolen blue car, Steve Rogers breathed out through his nose. One obstacle passed—only about five more to go. He didn't have the keys (having hotwired it fresh out of a parking lot yesterday evening and spent two hours washing and waxing it) so he left it, parked and unlocked in the garage, swinging around the keys to his own car in one hand.

The artist got on the elevator with about three other people, his small form managing to hide inconspicuously behind them as they dropped underground. They were all dressed in pressed, black suits (each of which matched his own and Steve wished he could send a thank you note to the internet), faces emotionless (or frowning slightly), sunglasses blocking their eyes from view. Agents. Government agents that Steve Rogers was currently standing behind, his own eyes uncovered, and the young man fought the urge to grin.

God, this was pathetic. He'd snuck into hotels with more security than this.

He got out with the second to last person and took a left, walking quickly down the hallway as if he knew where he was going. It was long and covered with tile flooring that made each of his steps echo across the walls. Cameras watched his every move, the red light on their grey bodies blinking menacingly at him.

Steve found the men's bathroom and pushed open the door, leaning against the sink and stared into the light blue eyes that weren't his own. He... may not have thought this out as well as he should have. Rubbing at his temples, the artist took a few deep breaths and headed back out into the hallway. He could do this, he _could_. All he had to do was find Bucky.

But he didn't even know how many _floors_ this place had. Steve took another breath and held it for a few seconds before he released it. Pushing through the bathroom door, he walked out into the hallway, this time paying closer attention to the office doors and the names written on them in big, black block letters.

_Jennifer Jones, Secretary_.

Steve pushed her door open without really thinking about it and flushed when two eyes turned up to him from a lightly freckled face. They were an interesting shade—pink with a bit of grey and Steve quickly recognized them as being hazel (if he could see hazel). The young woman was speaking on the phone—conversation almost over, so he tucked his hands behind his back and waited.

"Can I help you?" Her brow was furrowed, eyes slightly narrowed and flickering up to the clock. _Suspicion_ okay, yeah, he could work with that.

"I'm _so_ sorry to bother you," Steve started earnestly, shuffling his feet just a bit, avoiding eye contact. "But I'm new—just transferred from Washington, and I have no _idea_ how to get around."

Her eyes lit up a bit, face and body relaxing. He saw the makeup under her eyes—it was thin enough that if he hadn't worked with it most of his life he would have never noticed. "Oh! That's fine, where can I point you?"

Where would they put Bucky? Holding cells? That would be guards, then. Or agents. Maybe security (he didn't look like he could do anything for security, update their tech, maybe?). Steve opened his mouth to respond when there was a loud, boisterous knock on the door and the knob started turning.

There was a second of absolute clarity—the sight of Jennifer Jones' eyes widening, her pale face, eyes flickering to the clock again—and Steve placed his foot down in front of the door and leaned against it, stopping it from opening.

"Come on, Jenny!" The whine of a man came through the door—sleazy, proud, used to getting what he wanted. "It's open hours, you gotta unlock the door."

Her knuckles were white and now, _now_ Steve recognized the makeup for what it was besides, perhaps, just a touch up; it was hiding dark bags under her eyes, the tiredness that easily consumed her features now that he was looking for it. Pieces slid into place and the artist gritted his teeth before relaxing his features and opened his mouth. "You _do _not get to walk into this office, young man," his tone was pitched, higher, copying the tone and voice of his neighbour—Clarisse Juhrs. He remembered the tone she took when Bucky tried to reach for home baked cookies and the way she slapped his fingers with a wooden spoon because they were too hot. "This young lady has had enough of your nonsense, you hear?"

The man on the other side muttered something indistinguishable behind the door.

"Now, you go on and slide them folders under the doorway and keep on walking. Don't stop until I can't smell your god awful cologne anymore." There was a moment of silence and then a manila folder was pushed, slowly, under the doorframe. Steve pressed his ear against the wood and scowled. "I don't hear you walking!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Came the prompt response, quickly followed by the slap of expensive shoes against the floor. Steve listened until they vanished down the hallway and leaned over to pick up the folder.

Jennifer was staring at him. "You're not lost, are you," she murmured, accepting the papers and holding it tightly against her chest.

"No," he smiled apologetically and sat down in the chair opposite of hers. "I'm looking for where SHIELD keeps their prisoners."

She looked him over, then down at the file in her hands, and sighed. "I can't tell you that."

"Not even the floor?"

Her smile was crooked and weary.

"What about the button on the elevator I would have to press to _get_ there?"

Jennifer shook her head in exasperation, that small, tired smile still on her face, and pulled out a pad of sticky notes, grabbed a pen, and scribbled something out. She ripped it off and showed it to him.

_Twenty-third._

'Thank you,' Steve mouthed back and stood up from the chair, digging through his pockets and pulling out his wallet. "Here," he said, handing over a fifty dollar bill. "Enjoy a nice dinner out with some friends, alright? And you should report that guy to your superiors."

"He is my superior," she said softly but gave him a bright grin. "That was pretty amazing, though. The voice trick."

He grinned. "I have a good ear for mimicry," Steve tapped the shell of the ear that didn't have the hearing aid and gave her a loose salute before he walked out the door, shutting it behind him. There was a second of silence and then the purr of a shredder eating up some paper as he headed towards the stairs. They were empty and he went down a few flights (slowly, slowly, _slowly_ because, you know, _stairs and asthma_ were not a good mix) before reaching the blue (everything was blue here—which either meant everything was either green, or these people really did like the colour blue) door with a silver twenty-three painted on the front.

The hallway was cold unlike the other floor he had been on—dark, steel walls, doors locked by a mechanism he had never seen before—though it looked like he would need more than just his flimsy, photoshopped badge to get past _that_.

A burst of something light and colourful to his left got the artist's attention—like a moth drawn to a light or a bee to flowers—and Steve turned because it was the only sign of brightness in this cold, dark place—and recognized the woman in the hallway and her crimson hair. He should have kept walking, should have kept a straight face, but she met his eyes and he knew that _she_ knew he didn't belong.

Her gaze was cold, sharp, glinting like those of a large cat in a jungle and he could _feel_ that she didn't belong here; not in this cold place, not like this. Her hair stood out against the monochrome, her clothing dampened by the shade of her locks. They curled over her shoulders like dripping blood, dark against the pallor of her skin.

Steve recognized her from what she was—a hunter, a planner, someone who hunts.

She was a person with masks and faces who wore clothing like it was a body suit of armour.

_She was like him_.

And she was _fast_. The moment the woman had caught sight of him, she was moving, leaping forward with all the grace of a panther and the skill level of a spider who had realized prey was trapped in it's web.

Steve gasped, her forearm suddenly pressed against his throat before he could make a run for the stairs, teeth bared in a wolfish smile and teeth hovering over his nose.

"Hello, Steven Rogers," she said, and, if Steve closed his eyes, her words would come out the colour of the ocean.

* * *

**Date: **September 18th

**Time:** 12:02

**Location:** Manhattan, New York

Agent Phil Coulson was a balding man—another person with lilac skin and Steve took a sick pleasure in comparing him to the orchids that grew outside his window. The man had the classic black suit and an emotionless face with a humourless smile of everyone else in the facility.

Steve didn't smile back, his hands handcuffed to the table, wearing just his undershirt, slacks, and white back brace. The floor was cold, but his toes tapped against it anyway (he was used to cold floors, after all).

"Steven Rogers," the agent sat down across from him. "It took us quite a while to track you and Mr. Barnes down."

"Hmmm," the smaller man hummed, uninterested, and counted out the number of bricks on the wall. They were the big kind, only found in college dorms and locker rooms, painted over with a blinding white. The man across from him didn't want information, that was clear. If he had, the questions would've already been asked.

Steve admired his reflection in the two way mirror, though. He had done good work this morning—the black wig still making the brightness of the contacts stand out.

"And we were just about to send out a team looking for you when you actually come straight to us." Coulson was still talking and the artist almost sighed. "How very lucky."

"You have piss poor security," Steve pointed out simply because he _could_. "And a large percentage of sexual harassment that you should probably clean up."

Coulson leaned back in his chair. "This—"

"_Piss_ poor," Steve rested his elbows on the table and hooked his feet around the front legs of his chair. "I got all the way down here and no one stopped me. It's _laughable_ how bad your security is."

The agent ignored him and Steve wondered how much crap this guy had seen in order to ignore a jibe like that. "You wear a back brace."

"What, your files didn't tell you I have scoliosis?" the artist shot back. "Oh, wait," He paused, brightening up sarcastically, "they wouldn't because I can't _afford_ health care. Silly _me_, forgetting something like _that_."

Coulson's face still hadn't changed as he flipped through the files and the artist was almost (_almost_) impressed. "What other health problems do you have?"

Steve stared at him for a long time, snorted, and then howled with laughter. It took a bit longer than anyone would ever say for him to calm down, still giggling when he finally managed to ask; "Are you joking? You're joking, right?"

But the agent continued to stare at him and the shorter man sighed, thinking over the pros and cons of telling him.

Pro: he could get his medication back. That would be nice. He also wouldn't have to worry about dying in the middle of the night.

Con: they could use it against him, force him to cooperate.

Good, bad. Bad, good. So many options, so little time.

"I have asthma," Steve said after a long moment of silence. "So my _inhaler_ might be a nice thing to have back."

The agent wrote something down in the file before looking back up at him. There was no expression on his face (still, like, what was _with_ this guy? Was he an android?) and Steve figured that _this_ was how Coulson did his interrogations; wore the opposition down with silence.

Alright, then, two can play at that game.

They sat there, listening to the clock tick, staring each other down. Stubbornness, recklessness, yeah, Steve figured he would get a slap to the back of his head the moment that Bucky heard about what he did. But, hey, it was better to be with his partner than without him.

His stomach clenched at the thought of them keeping him and Bucky separate but he squashed it. Negative thoughts weren't going to get them anywhere. He started to count backwards from one thousand instead, singing the X bottles of beer on the wall song just to keep himself occupied.

Maybe he'd take a nap after that. He didn't get a lot of sleep last night.

Five hundred and ten bottles of beer later, the door to the interrogation room opened and Steve stared up at a tall man wearing a long trench coat, left eye covered by an eye patch. There were a few scars visible underneath it and the young man tilted his head to the side, eyeing the agent across from him and watched how he straightened. The new man's skin was the shade of a plum and the artist admired the colour for a bit before realizing where he was.

Boss man, then. Head honcho.

"Steven Rogers," He wanted to tell them that his name is _Steve_. Steven made him feel twenty years older than he actually was. "You are a right pain in my ass."

"How so?" The artist shifted a bit, the brace starting to dig into his hip. "I didn't steal anything from you," He paused and narrowed his eyes. "Unless I _did_."

The man gave him a tight lipped smile and pulled out the second chair. He looked like the woman, Steve realized; all sharp angles and cold. "No, you just stole quite a bit from an ally of ours." A picture slid across the table and the artist leaned forward and sneered at the grinning face of billionaire Tony Stark.

"Oh, _him_," Steve laughed. "You know, for a genius he was quite easy to," he mimed pulling the rug out from under someone's feet. "We got fifty _thousand_ out of him." Looking over the two agents, the artist raised an eyebrow. "Is that what this is about? Stealing pocket change from a rich man?"

For a moment, the eye patch man stared at him, weighing him. "We had agents go through your apartment."

Steve squashed the urge to ask him if they found his red Prismacolor marker—he'd been looking for it _everywhere_. "And?"

"Normally we have conmen who have luxury places, safe houses that cost an arm and a leg." The man leaned forward, cupping his hands on the table. "You know what we found at yours?"

"What?" The artist gritted out.

"Old pots and pans and a lot of soup. You want to know what that tells me?"

Steve bared his teeth like a starving wolf that had been cornered in a back alley.

"You don't use much, if any, of the money you _actually_ make." Coulson got up and left the room, leaving the file spread out on the table. Steve relaxed his hands and schooled his features as the single dark eye met his own. "In fact," the other man continued. "You spend only about three percent on what you actually need. So, what are you saving up for? Medical bills? Art supplies?"

The small man didn't answer, glaring up at the agent from under the black bangs.

"Fine," the man said, "how did you get into this facility."

Steve snorted and rested his chin on his arms, grinning up at Fury, his eyes half closed—suddenly going from wolf to a purring cat in seconds. "With the ease of sliding a knife through butter," he admitted.

"And how did you _find_ this facility?"

"Conspiracy theorists. You have about fifty black cars moving in and out of this place in a day—did you think no one would notice?"

Leather creaked as arms crossed over a broad chest. "The badge?"

"Photoshop."

"Suit?"

"Do you like it?" Steve grinned, looking out from under his fluttering eyelashes. "I made it myself."

Staring him down, the agent leaned back with something that sounded like a sigh blended with irritation and exhaustion and Steve had no idea if he was impressed, or just about to shoot him and dump his body in a river. "I'm willing to offer you a deal, Rogers."

The artist felt his heart skip a single beat before it started to pound, thumping up against his chest. "Deal?"

"You work for me, and SHIELD will erase everything we have on you. Clean slate."

The artist tilted his head to the side, frowning. "No other catch?"

"You have to do what I tell you."

Snorting, the small man tugged lightly on the handcuffs. "Obviously," he muttered and leaned back in his chair. "If I say no?"

"Prison, jail. We have enough evidence to pack you away for a long time."

Steve dragged his nails slowly along the table top until the handcuffs stopped his fingers from going any further and bit his lip. "What's the pay? _And,_" he cut off the agent before he could answer. "Do we have to return the money that we already have?"

"You'll start at seventy thousand a year," the man said and Steve fought to keep his face neutral as his heart almost exploded into motion. Seventy _thousand_—he and Bucky could go to school, they could get a better apartment, a new car—"And can work your way up, of course. As for keeping the money..." The agent crossed his arms over his chest. "You haven't been irresponsible with it, so I'm going to say yes."

The artist looked down at his hands, curling his fingers absently as he thought it over. No more having to worry about getting caught and they could actually do some _good_. "We—" Steve started and didn't see the sharp expression on the other man's face, didn't see how the agent leaned forward, listening as if what was coming out of the artist's mouth was the secret to the universe. "You'll let Bucky go? He just helped." The small man looked up, for once his face earnest, truthful.

"Yes," Reaching forward, the agent unlocked the handcuffs. "You're good at what you do," he said simply. "I'd be a fool to just lock you up. And your friend will be released once he finishes filling out... paperwork."

"Hmmm," Steve hummed, half in agreement, rubbing at his wrists. "So, who are you?"

"Director Nick Fury. Head of SHIELD."

The artist grinned, following him out of the interrogation room. Coulson was there, along with the redhead Steve had met before. "So you _are_ the big boss man, then."

Fury looked back at him with his single eye but didn't answer. "Agent Romanoff, this is Steve Rogers, please show him to his quarters for the evening. Rogers, This is Agent Natasha Romanoff."

"Yeah," Steve grumbled, picking up his shirt, jacket, tie, and shoes off the nearby table. "We met."

She flashed him a smile that was a bit too toothy to be considered friendly.

"Are you going to kill me in my sleep?" He asked her, following behind her quick pace, almost having to jog to keep up. "Because that wouldn't be very nice."

Coulson and Fury watched them walk until the artist turned around again, tugging on Natasha's sleeve without fear of his own life. The Redhead turned with him, her eyes blinking slowly as he shouted down the hallway at them. "There's a blue corvette in your parking lot. I stole it," he didn't look very apologetic, "_sorry_. It has my stuff in the trunk and the license plates it used to have are in a trash can on the corner of ninety-eight and Main." Then, they were walking again and Fury sighed.

"Why do I have a feeling that I just made the worst mistake of my life?"

Coulson laughed, the sound echoing through the hallway.

Steve, close to the stairs, heard the noise, and grinned.

* * *

I'm sure by now you have realized that Steve is colour blind due to a lot of different descriptions and yes, he is; Tritanopia in fact (meaning he can only see red, blue, white, and black). I added a lot of other health problems that Steve had before project Rebirth including Scoliosis (the back brace), asthma, stomach ulcers, social anxiety, and deafness.

I don't know a lot about the other health effects, but I do know what it's like to be colour blind so, oops, maybe went a bit overboard with that.

This might be part of a series, I don't know yet, I'm just sick of looking at this thing.

Please review if you liked it,

Gospel


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